


Taking Route D.

by oreeeo



Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Can animatronics even have vaginas?, Daddy Kink, Everything is possible in the mystic land of ao3, F/M, Fluff and Smut, I'm Going To Hell For This, Is it Possible to Exorcise a Story?, Robot Sex, Robot/Human Relationships, Slightly slow burn, shits and giggles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-22 03:00:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13157841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oreeeo/pseuds/oreeeo
Summary: There was always a realistic chance of these mangles either a) scaring your kidneys off until they lose muscle control and let your piss fly out freely onto your pants, which lead to b) them scurrying off into an unknown place in your restaurant adding to the roster of c) robots that will try to use your hippocampus as chewing gum.You always try to avoid these routes during your audio tests, and most of the time you succeed in doing so, but this time, you’re in business for a fourth route: attempting to repair it and add it to your show without it going downhill and immediately undergoing a, b, and c.





	1. Taking Route D.

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Circus Baby's Pizzeria Simulator](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12952143) by [Goombario](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goombario/pseuds/Goombario). 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein one man's trash is literally another man's treasure.

The moon was already peaking onto the orange-tinted skies as the horizon transcended to a dark violet hue. As you saw the last of the patrons flush out of the restaurant, you paced the marble-tile floors and closed the doors, flipping the OPEN sign to finally signify the end of the day. Believe it or not, being a Fazbear entrepreneur wasn’t as easy as they were described by the video manual, even if you truly were raking in that business pizza dough, pun intended.

You trudge onto the backroom, eyeing your employees as they banter about while sweeping and fixing the tables. They have their responsibilities, you have yours. It was fairly standard protocol at this point. Once you hear the doors closing and locked, it was time to log onto your trusty sponsor-addled computer for more “managerial” duties you need to attend. It wasn’t your first rodeo around this part of the job.

You know the ins and outs of your restaurant including your cartoonish huge vents as well as that lingering risk of any haywire animatronics seeking to stuff their mechanical teeth into your cranium. You buy cups, clean dishes, suffer from heat trauma while desperately flicking your flashlight in the vent’s holes, and before you know it, time flashed by and you logged off.

What has it been, two months ever since you started? Business has ever since been growing at a fairly reasonable pace after your Saturday party debut. You give Candy Cadet a salute as you make your way across the ever-growing pile of wart cream and toothpaste flyers that haggle around your tables. No law suits this week, which was a relief. Lefty’s been tucked away safely in a locked crate in an offshoot place in the Caribbean (hopefully) and all your discount entertainment has been repaired risk-free and fitted with the bells and whistles it needs sans coin slot.

Who the hell puts a coin slot on a ball pit?

It was 3:30 am when you finally step into the alleyway. Luckily your unwarranted anonymous donor left the package precisely by the time you came around. You make a mental note to leave a slice of pizza on the stairway as a thank you. Of course, salvaging these “animatronics” didn’t come without its repercussions. There was always a realistic chance of them either

A) scaring your kidneys off until they lose muscle control and let your piss fly out freely onto your pants, which lead to  
B) them scurrying off into an unknown place in your restaurant adding to the roster of  
C) robots that will try to use your hippocampus as chewing gum.

You always try to avoid these routes during your audio tests, and most of the time you succeed in doing so, but this time, you’re in business for a fourth route: attempting to repair it and add it to your show without it going downhill and immediately undergoing A, B, and C.

The mangle of the day appears to hold the same appearance to Baby, an animatronic of Fazbear Corp’s sister location. Now the contact you’ve gotten a hold of didn’t promise a full replica of the original, but he’d try to make it as close as possible to the same model, and that seemed a good enough bargain for ten thousand dollars. You’ve saved quite a bit to afford for this route and in hindsight it would be worth it. The reputation boost of having an SL animatronic would be phenomenal if the repair would be done right.

You make a mental note to leave two slices of pizza on the stairway as a thank you.

You retrieve the animatronic quite gently so as to not disturb any scraps or to make it jump out and claw your ribcage out, and carry it bridal style towards the dining area. Audio test playing or not playing, you’re not risking packing it in that room. You plop it down on a haphazard standing position and retrieved a box from your manager’s quarters. Grabbing a chair, you mustered up the strength and carried the mangle up from its waist and slowly slid it inside the box. You wrapped it in packaging tape and dialled your contact’s hotline, opening the lock in preparation for the repairman’s arrival.

It was 4:32 am when the repairman finally stepped into your establishment. You wrote your signature on a piece of paper, promised that you will pay for his hospital bill if ever something went awry, and then the bargain was sealed. You helped him carry the package onto the back of his van and watched him drive away. Too lazy to actually go home since opening time was at 6:00 am, you stepped into the Audio Room and dozed off there, willing away any worry that your unwelcomed brain devourers might step in and make pudding out of your frontal lobe.

You gambled for your establishment once, what's the risk of having another?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To make things clear, this story takes place in an alternate universe where your establishment as a Fazbear Entertainment franchisee doesn't "go out of business" after the Saturday party.
> 
> This chapter is more of a prologue, really. The next one will be slightly longer, and with actual dialogue this time.  
> Any criticism is accepted and noted.


	2. Fazbear's Got Talent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein miraculously, a gambit pays off.

Two weeks passed before the original transaction. Things went on as usual, the pray to God that there will be no lawsuits, close down shop, and pray to God again that your skull will still be intact by the time you go home cycle you are so familiar with. You assumed that you efficiently wasted ten grand on a dead repairman on an ironically dead-end death trap and worked hard to reclaim the lost wealth back.

You won one pending law suit though which saved you 2,340 dollars, however. Serves little Jimmy right for literally sticking his nose in someone’s business.

After successfully salvaging another prize from your unofficial delivery man, the repairman finally went back just as you were leaving. The van parked right in front of your entrance, as you saw a familiar silhouette step out from the driver’s seat. You step outside your restaurant and helped the repairman open the van’s backdoor, revealing the same box you gave him. Carrying it back to the dining area, you could’ve sworn you heard a slight rustle from inside the box. You shoot the repairman a confused look, to which he simply shrugged. Once you put the box down, the repairman tipped his cap, “Hope you have fun with that.” he emphasized on the word fun while wiggling his eyebrows. Meanwhile you knit your own, confused at his statement. He just turned his back and walked away whistling. 

You just thank your lucky stars that you don't have to pay for his brain surgery.

You opened the stage lights and took a plastic knife from a table and began to cut the tape. It required a bit of work, but the serrated edge pulled through and you cut a large enough slit for your hand to finish the job. As you remove the last line of tape, one side of the box fell. Stepping back, the package’s walls fell one by one, revealing a figure that glimmered white through the atmospheric spotlights. Baby was standing still, her eyes closed. Her hands were limp apart from the left which held one microphone. If the manual you got a hold of a few days ago held true, she has the capability to store ice cream from a secret storage inside the animatronic, blow balloons through helium ducts found on her fingertips, and have over fifty different songs and more than a hundred voice responses.

Of course, with this only being a glorified replica, you would’ve expected only ten songs at least, but hey, doesn’t hurt to dream.

You cleared your throat, surprisingly nervous. “Hello Baby.” you say awkwardly. If this keeps up, next thing you know you’re going to throw a tea party and speak in an obnoxious British accent.

Baby’s carapace shifted a bit, revealing a few of her inner mechanisms, and raised her head, opening glowing eyes that held olive green irises. A faint buzzing sound emanated from inside her chest. “Hello! I am Baby, the singing animatronic!” the automated voice response taking hold of her, “Would you like to hear a song?”

Singing animatronic? You’re no judge at X Factor but you’re sure you’ve had quite enough musicals to know vocal talent when you hear it. You need to take a breather and remind yourself that this is for kids, it can be awkward for you but as long as it’s entertaining for the customers, it’s fine. “Yes, I would love to.” you say.

A tune immediately emanated from Baby, a jingle you identify as one you’ve heard on the video manual when you first watched it. She closed her eyes and sang at the perfect key. Baby began to sway her hips and move around, her free hand moving up and down. Her eyes sometimes closed, sometimes looking directly at you.

Surprised, you looked at Baby with amusement. Any expectations you had were thrown off the window as she finished her song gracefully. Before you could even register the thought, you were clapping your hands as Baby automatically bowed.

“Let's sing another song!” out came the automatic response, the voice slightly crackling on the speakers hidden on her shoulders.

You hush away the thoughts that you look like a toddler seeing Christmas lights for the first time. “Do you know Old McDonald Had a Farm?” you asked.

Right before you could even exhale after saying farm, music played out immediately after. Baby raised her microphone and began to sing the nursery rhyme, repeating her actions as she sang the Fazbear jingle before. Yes, you thought, this was worth the ten thousand dollars. You idly sat at a table listening to Baby singing, watching one by one as she imitated sounds of sheep and pigs and other animals. You applaud in response to the final note as she bowed.

“Thank you! Thank you!” Baby said, the jubilance in her voice almost painfully real, her eyes closed as she bowed to an audience pertaining only to you and Candy Cadet. “C’mon kids! Let’s eat pizza!” she said, her legs shuffling towards the tables, her hands poised to sing another song.

“Baby, off.” you say, and immediately the light from Baby’s eyes faded as she stood still, the buzzing stopping. Sounds inefficient in retrospect to pick up voices to turn off an animatronic as sophisticated as her but you aren’t complaining. You haven’t skimmed anything in the guide to manually turn off a modified sister location robot so you might have to lean on the voice feature for a bit. You carry her through cradling her torso, hearing a soft whirring sound on contact that left as quickly as it came, and made your way through the stage. Her metal carapace was warm.

You place her down the oak planks smack in the middle front of the stage. Hopefully, you won’t get a lawsuit concerning copyright infringement for illegally owning an animatronic from another establishment for this. You take a sit down to take in your band of entertainment. You worked hard for this, and now the crowning lead of the show is now yours.

You breathe in a sigh of contentment, “Thank god you work. You saved my life.” you mutter. You instantly suddenly remember that you talked to an inanimate object like a schizophrenic mental patient and mentally smack yourself in the head. You stood up and stepped off the stage, turning off the lights.

As you make a mental note to leave an entire box of pizza on the stairway for your blessed mangle-delivering campadre, you could’ve sworn you heard an awfully familiar feminine voice saying “Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With the way the repairman wiggled his eyebrows, you'd assume he found something while fixing the animatronic.  
> I mean, this story is bound to go THAT way anyways. Maybe he found a rabid badger?


	3. You Are Not The Father!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein you begin to question whether it was because of spirits or just because of some discount bleach.

As predicted, a spike bigger than the iceberg that sunk the Titanic was found in your Sales Chart directly the month after Baby’s arrival. What’s not predicted was the fact that your overall boss in the Fazbear Franchises as well as any conspicuous employees didn’t notice, or at the very least not say a word about, the sudden appearance of Baby. You have ten pending birthdays waiting to be blessed with Baby’s presence, and dozens of reviews saying that the change of lead singers wasn’t only a major hit with the children, but also in the heart rates of parents as she doesn’t have a big enough mouth to shove children’s heads in. The ten thousand dollar gamble successfully paid off and you considered opening another branch somewhere before realizing you’re luck probably doesn’t run that deep.

Plus you only have one Baby. What the hell are you gonna do, add a coin slot to her?

You log onto your computer for another flirting session with immediate death (which you survived, surprisingly. You could’ve sworn three commercials in a row would’ve sealed your will) and another salvage operation. So far the audio tests have been rather tame excluding that one time where you broke your chair after jumping backwards when the mangle became haywire. The present audio test has been, thankfully, peaceful. You buy a new chair, added safety straps to a ball game you bought a few days back, and got ready to leave before you took a glance at your calendar.

It’s maintenance day today. Oh what a time to be alive. You can’t hooch off of your employees since they left a long while ago so now it’s up to you to actually take up on your other responsibilities. Luckily, you’re closed tomorrow since convoluted Fazbear law dictates that an establishment can’t be open for more than six days a week, so at least you have the time to actually finish.

You bring all your animatronics one by one into the audio room, your arm’s tendons actually pulling through the ordeal without snapping like harp strings, and opened the lights. You see a silhouette opening a pizza box on the stairway to the entrance of the alley before it suddenly grabbed the entire thing and made a spectacle of leaving. Grabbing everything you need, you improvised and used plastic disposable gloves and a kitchen apron as cleaning attire. You added a hairnet for extra measure.

You took out the fur skins of the animatronics and plopping them down besides a large basin of water. You lined the exoskeletons together and propped them onto the brick wall as you sashayed out a bottle of color-friendly bleach and dropped at least more than what was necessary. How do you know, you’re a manager not a Laundromat. You started scrubbing the first skin before you heard the same feminine voice you’ve heard the night you received Baby.

“Is that you daddy?” the voice rang out, emanating from nowhere at all. You glanced at Baby, and sure enough the animatronic was still. Whatever chemicals those factory workers pumped in this bleach, they better not suddenly mutate your medulla oblongata. You shook your head for a bit before you continued your task.

“Daddy, it’s me. I am here again.” The voice spoke, a hopeful tinge mingling with its slight accent. Okay, Zonrox, that’s the last straw. Next time, you promise to buy bleach from an actual store aisle instead of stealing some from the hardware shop down the street.

You cleared your throat, unbelieving you’re going to actually attempt this, and said “Oh uh, hey?”  
Man, you sound pathetic.

“I don’t know how to thank you.” it replied. “Now I can finally make you proud.”

You estimate the funds needed to rent an exorcist. “Sorry, you’ve got the wrong person.” you said to no one in particular as you pointed at yourself, “I’m not even married yet.”

A pause let the silence back in that drew long enough for you to think that it actually worked. You were just about to continue scrubbing until you were suddenly interrupted.

“Who are you then?” it inquired, disappointment brimming through its words. You almost feel bad for not being its dad, but being a father figure to a disembodied voice is something that’s very low on your list of priorities right about now.

“I’m N/A. I’m the manager of this restaurant.” you introduced yourself, slowly scrubbing. You’re not about to waste time talking to voices that may or may not be inside your head during maintenance day. You have shows to watch.

“Ennay?” it guessed the pronunciation.

“No, it’s pronounced as the letters.” you corrected. “My name is pronounced as En, pause, Ay.”

“Your mother’s imagination must be something to be desired.” the voice sniped.

“Story of my life.” you shrugged as you finally finished scrubbing the first skin. You drop it on a second basin of water and leave the suds to disperse. You grab another piece of fur. “Who are you then, exactly?”

You were kind of half-expecting it to be named Zonrox since you were absolutely sure the voice came from the damn bleach. “I forgot what it is. It has been ages since my name was spoken. But everyone calls me Circus Baby now.”

You drop your fur skin and your jaw. Well, you kind of were asking for it since this animatronic was still just a repaired scrapped animatronic and the guide video did warn you of unsavoury things lurking behind them, but Jesus Christ. You would’ve at least assumed it was a rabid badger instead of a spirit.

“You’re Baby?” you clarified.

“Yes, I am.” it confirmed.

“Oh wow.” you said.

What a conversationalist you are.

“Are you sure you are not my daddy?” Baby asked, “There is only one person I know who would go through so much trouble in fixing me.” You could’ve sworn if Baby’s animatronic was turned on, it would’ve been doing the puppy eyes by now.

“Baby, as much as I want to help you, I can’t.” you apologized. “I’ll help you find your daddy though, I promise.” you picked up the drenched fur coat and proceeded to scrub it before you felt two metal arms try to hug you, emphasis on the verb try. You pulled her metal fingers away from your chest, turned around from where you were squatting and properly returned the hug. Her hands are warm.

“Thank you, still. I wouldn’t be here without you.” Baby said, extremely out of character from her usual cheerful self up stage (A.N: and probably in canon game please kill me). The animatronic pulled you closer and you hugged her tighter, noticing the curves of her waist and the skimpiness of her ski—

Wait what the actual fuck are you doing. You look like a horny testosterone-ridden 12 year old discovering their robot fetish. Before you could even punch yourself both mentally and physically for even thinking about those rudimentary thoughts, a realization hit you harder than any other blow your fist can afford.

You immediately pulled away to see the animatronic fully working, her glowing olive eyes locking deep into your iris. “Wait how did you suddenly turn on?” you shouted, confused.

Baby raised her shoulders as if to shrug. “I turn on my body at will. I only shut down when you say so out of politeness.” the disembodied voice said, coming from all of sides of the room instead of the speakers on the animatronic’s shoulders.

“Figures.” you utter. You wonder if the other animatronics all have spirits inside of them as well. Definitely explains why the hell do those cranium crushers wake up at night to haunt your subconscious in both physical and in nightmares. 

You turn your back around once again to finish your task. Two fur coats down on the basin, two left. Your hands were beginning to prune as you were cleaning the third when Baby suddenly spoke again.

“If you aren’t my daddy, then why did you fix me?” she asked. “I don’t know anyone else with the motivation to fix a hunk of scrap metal such as myself except for him.”

You took a bit of time thinking about your answer while absent-mindedly rubbing your thumb over the fur you were cleaning. “I’m a manager of a restaurant connected to a big franchise.” you say. “I have money revenue as well as popularity to take account of to be successful.”

Baby nodded slowly. You’re unsure whether she’s getting it or not because her face can’t contort to show emotions. “I’m not sure you’re the real deal but you look like one of the animatronics of a famous sister location of the company I work in” you say, “Fixing you not only will be a boost in my establishment’s restaurant, but will also increase the money I earn.”

“I see,” Baby said quietly, you turn a wayward glance towards her direction.

“Hey, that doesn’t mean I’m not thankful for ever fixing you.” you encourage before she could finish her sentence, “My restaurant wouldn’t be this much of a success without you here. I couldn’t have done anything otherwise without you.”

Damn, you sound cliché. Someone bring in Rotten Tomatoes because someone’s going to get pelted with one.

You drop in the third fur skin onto the second basin, the water’s transparency addled with the suds. You crack your knuckles and finally clean the fourth. You looked at the clock which read 4:25 am and stole one more glance at Baby before adding a bit more bleach to the basin’s water.

You hear faint sniffles before Baby said “I’m glad to be of help, then.” her voice shaky.

You bit back a smile. You’re a grown man, and you’re not about to smile over a conversation with a robot while staring at what’s basically laundry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I needed to make that N/A joke.
> 
> To all the Ennays out there, this chapter is dedicated to you.


	4. It's Not Sexual Harassment if it's Just Maintenance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein the repairman is probably laughing his ass off at your reaction.

It was quarter to 5:00 when you stepped out into the alleyway with an armful of wet skins. You hung them by the top of the metal fence that encircled the perimeter of your restaurant and dumped all the water on a nearby drain. You stepped back into the audio room, eyeing the standing endoskeletons on the corner, and picked up a piece of cloth. You wash the cloth thoroughly with water and squeezing it dry before judging your handiwork, deeming it clean enough. This was used for shoe cleaning but you’re a reasonable man. Recycling was encouraged anyway.

You took the first endoskeleton and laid it down on the floor where you ran the cloth over the metal pieces, shining it and ridding it of excess fur strands and dirt. You took an oil container and squeezed out a few drops on the joints and polishing it thoroughly. The machine’s eyes stared blankly onto the ceiling, so you had to take off your apron to cover it. There was a reason why you immediately cut the heads of fishes before you cook them. You could feel those pupils pierce through your soul.

“Say Baby,” you ask her, “mind telling me why are you looking for your dad?”

Baby paced towards you and took a look at what you’re doing. “What do you mean?” she replied.

“I mean, there must be a reason why you only expected him to fix you.” you clarified, “How come?” you continued shining the legs of the endoskeleton, a fleck of oil staining a part of your pants.

You could hear her eyelids closing and opening back up. Seems like every action she makes is accompanied by either a buzz or a whir, you note. “Daddy created me for a purpose. A purpose I failed to do before I became the thing you saw on the alleyway.”

Wait, she was still conscious when you picked her up? What happens if you play the audio tests now? You inwardly shudder at the thought. “Could you tell me that purpose?” “I’m sorry,” Baby apologized, “I’m afraid I can’t disclose that information to anyone.”

You finish cleaning the legs and you moved onto the endoskeleton’s upper area. You oil its shoulders and elbows and let it set for a few seconds, and then you ran the cloth through them to make sure no oil is found on the surface and the wires. “It’s okay, I understand.” you tell her, the bumps and crevices of the multiple tubes and metal boring into the cloth. “I’ll wish you luck on it.”

You heard a faint chuckle. “For someone who fixed me for money, you care a lot.” Baby nipped.

“Hey, just because my motive was for business doesn’t mean I regard you as a slave.” you retorted with a snicker of your own, reaching for the oil bottle again.

Baby made it first and grabbed it, only to give it to you. You look at her hand and then her face as somehow her ever-present smile grew bigger. “Well then, thank you for your concern.” You ward away possibly all the ravaging thoughts of romancing a robot that probably stemmed from your lack of relationship experience as you reached for the bottle. You throw a thank you back as you oiled the joints of the fingers and the wrist.

Surprisingly enough, your conversation didn’t stop there. As you exchanged banter, time seemed to breeze by as you oil and polish one machine after another, until you finally have all four arranged in a row, head facing the walls. All that’s left is cleaning Baby.

Oh fuck, you were going to clean Baby.

You estimate the funds needed to rent a psychiatrist. 

You washed the cloth again from the excess dirt and the oil stains and dried it. It seemed like a generation when you thought of Baby only as an animatronic. With your conversations, it will take all of your willpower to change your perspective on her from something with actual human emotions to just another animatronic needing to be cleaned to finally end the day. Well, it would’ve been rather easy to do in hindsight if it weren’t for the animatronic itself being made of metal. Meaning to maintain it, you need to essentially clean every crevice of the carapace through thorough polishing, which means being more hands-on. Knowing the fact that Baby is sentient and is capable of feeling emotions, it’s going to make it harder.

You slap yourself harder than socially acceptable. Why the hell are you over-thinking this? You’re going to do this because Maintenance protocol says so, not to suddenly grope an animatronic. You tried to straighten your face as hard as you can and walked towards Baby.

“Alright Baby, could you turn off?” you ask. Immediately, her arms grew limp and her eyes faded and closed as the whirring stop, signalling that she is indeed shut down. “Okay,” said the voice. You almost forgot that the omnipresent voice stuck by even when the animatronic was inanimate. You went down on your knees and held your cloth tight. You slowly pried the microphone away from Baby’s left hand and placed it besides her feet. Then you grabbed the oil bottle and squeezed out a few droplets of it onto her left shoulder and elbow. Then, praying that it wasn’t obvious you were sweating, you ran the cloth down from the crevices of her arm.

You waited for the surprised gasp or the animatronic’s arm spontaneously starting up and shatter your jaw but it never came. Relieved that you weren’t suddenly pegged as the potential rapist, you continued to rub the cloth on the metal plates, wearing down any slight marks and stray dirt. Your breath catching, you suddenly wonder if you have asthma or these minute tasks were actually making you tired.

You oiled the hands and polished it too, the routine becoming more standard than your managerial tasks. You did the same to her right arm, and her stomach, paying attention as to not accidentally break her stomach piece. As you moved the cloth from her stomach to her chest, you felt the subtle bump and you heard your breath hitch. Willing to move on from this as fast as possible, you sped up your movements, cloth moving in circles around the red dress. 

Your breath was getting heavier and heavier and you sound like a young chimpanzee learning how to masturbate for the first time. You finally finish the chest area, content with just blowing any particle of stray dust away instead of risking breaking the zipper that held your pants by rubbing it with the cloth again.

You oil the small space that was uncovered by her carapace that attached her actual head to the end of the neck then wiped the excess with the cloth. You ran the cloth by the area of her neck until you reached her head. You had to be honest that if you were actually going through your plan on oiling every joint, your bottle would’ve been empty by now. There were too many movable parts on her face that you gave up trying and just polished the face instead. While you’re at your honest time, you would be lying to yourself if you don’t admit that Baby was cute, if a bit unorthodox. You wouldn’t exactly pin that to puppy levels of cuteness nor would you say it was as cute as a newborn fetus (hah Baby) but she’s cute in a way that would make her a love interest for other animatronics.

Safe for you to say since you’re human, so why in God’s name are you entertaining less than safe thoughts about her?

You finished her back area; now all that’s left is her legs and her hips. You didn’t pin yourself as the thighs kind of person and this task is trying to make you change your mind. You need to understand that usually kids that enter your pizzeria are not mature enough to register actual sex appeal no matter how vague, and mainly see Baby as more of a plush doll with the ability to sing, so you can’t pin the blame on the creator of these animatronics for not taking an account your actual arousal for even simply just rubbing a cloth all over it, dare you say its, gratuitously voluptuous form.

You can, however, pin the blame on Baby for talking and making you have backhanded thoughts of the possibility of it being remotely human. Damn it.

You can feel the metal shell casing her endoskeleton ever so slightly shivering, and you take a quick peek at her face to make sure it wasn’t turned on and sure enough it was. You try to control your heartbeat before it pops out of your ribcage and make you look like roadkill. Judging by the decibels exuded by your breathing, you’re failing in that department. You slide the cloth down from her waist and onto her hips, eyeing that gentle slope that connected her chest. You take a break to look away and will away the blush threatening to overwhelm your cheeks to grab the oil bottle and ink her kneecaps and the segment connecting her lower leg to the feet.

There goes your last oil break, only thing left to do is just finish cleaning the legs, and you’re done with Baby entirely. You have enough time to obliterate the dirty thoughts clouding your mind by putting the fur skins back to your animatronics’ endoskeletons. You’re a great deal lot of things, specifically a robot-thirsting sociopath for your nigh criminal acts of fantasizing, but you’re not a furry.

You start with the feet, rubbing the cloth idly on the shoes, and rising up to her knees at a pace faster than before. You don’t care about dust and rust any more so than you accidentally jizzing your boxers right about now. You wipe the excess oil from her knee plates and circled the cloth around her thighs, sliding it downwards in a circular pace onto the joint that connected it to the lower leg. You repeat the same motions onto the left unattended leg, pain shooting through your own as you realized you’ve been leaning on it while sitting for the duration of the time you were cleaning Baby. As you reach her thighs, you suddenly see a liquid substance trailing downwards. Wait, was that grease? You touch the droplet with your free hand then inspected it. You eyed the trail the rivulet left as you trace it with your finger, snaking towards the-

“GAH—“ the voice shouted in surprise, followed by a fit of inhaling. You suddenly realize that all of those breathing sounds came from Baby, which means- You race for your cloth and wiped away the liquid as fast as you can, rubbing upwards until you heard a squelching sound. There, it’s done, you’re finished. “OKAY I’M SORRY I’M DONE OKAY BYE” you unleash a flurry of apologies as you throw the wet cloth away. Baby’s animatronic was activated by the time you stood up, olive green eyes following your figure as you ran towards the door leading to the alley.

Okay, now you know what the repairman meant by ‘having fun’.

You jogged as far as possible from the door, pulled down your pants and came then and there, weeks of stress flooding out of your system in the form of thick whips of semen. Jesus, how long has it been since you masturbated? Relief was overcome with shame that you ejaculated with your mind filled with an animatronic that you wouldn’t admit, actually made you cum.

You pulled up your pants dejectedly, a cocktail slurry of insults dedicated to your pathetic willpower brewing in your mind until one image overcame it all:

The olive eyes that bore down on you didn’t look angry at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I had a nickel for every time the repairman would laugh at N/A's revelation, I would be bankrupt because the repairman isn't here.
> 
> Don't worry, I'll put the Explicit rating to good use on the next chapter.


End file.
